Your hands carry mystery,
and tears and pain.
Your hands carry a lie,
I can’t retain.
Your hands have something
of magic and sorrow,
their touch is soft but cold
as if they kept the look of a scarecrow.
Your hands are made of knives,
and covered with feathers,
they are slippery and restless,
and filled with emptiness.
Your hands hurt me,
and I know what I’m thinking is crazy.
But I can’t forget what they taught me,
once they have left me.
Your hands are treacherous,
just reserved for those who are fake,
they won’t let me be your friend,
or even take them in mine.
Your hands are ungrateful,
they don’t give anything away,
and just take my tears as I cry.
Your hands have an unusual gaze,
for my pain they are to blame.
But in my heart they won’t be able to leave a trace,
because I won’t let your secrets reach for me,
and take everything away once again.